Becalmed, and other stories
by Biancaneve
Summary: Collection of oneshots on the gang's journey to Acre between 2/12 and 2/13. Some angst, some fluff, some random outlaw antics. Lots of Allan, and guaranteed WillDjaq.
1. Becalmed

**Prologue: Becalmed**

If wind was to come, it was most likely to come at nightfall, a breeze rising as evening fell. And so it had quickly become a ritual to gather on the deck at the end of the day, hoping to see the sails twitch and bulge. Not everyone came: some men were content to enjoy the unexpected holiday, the opportunity to lounge below deck with their dice and ale and lewd stories. In a few more days, perhaps, they would become bored enough, or concerned enough about the dwindling stocks of food and grog, to join the captain in his vigil.

He grew more agitated with every passing day that brought his cargo no closer to purses that would pay for it. There were those among his crew, too, who disliked the delay; those who had loved ones waiting for them in some port or other, those for whom the sea was not life but merely a way of sustaining it. And finally, the little group of travellers who had talked their way onboard at Marseilles, trading a pouch of coins for a corner in which to unroll their blankets. They were always there at sunset as well.

This evening, they were still there when the moon began to rise, its reflection unbroken on the calm, almost glassy surface of the ocean; their leader still pacing and fidgeting as if he could transfer some of his restless energy to the ship itself.

"I wish you would not do that," Much called as his master balanced his way along the rail that ran along the starboard side. "You will fall, and then where will we be?"

"You will still be here in this exact same spot, when I climb back up again," Robin pointed out without breaking his catlike progress. "We're not moving, Much."

He jumped lightly back down to the boards which passed for "earth" these days, then turned and peered out to sea. "Five days. And every day the Sheriff and Gisbourne get closer to the King."

_And Marian gets further away from us, _he didn't say, but they all heard him anyway.

"Maybe the Sheriff's becalmed too," Will suggested helpfully. Like Robin, like them all, he was discomfited by the crushing inertia that had suddenly claimed them after weeks of constant forward motion across land and sea; and also by the fact that, although he was surrounded by wood, he was unable to release the tension by driving his axe into it. The captain seemed to like his mainsail upright.

Allan shook his head. "We can see for miles around on this bloody duckpond, and we haven't seen any other ships stuck in it."

He barely even noticed the silence that greeted his remark; he no longer really expected anyone to answer him unless he asked a direct question. A man less fond of the sound of his own voice might have given up weeks ago.

"I'm so bored," Much complained, taking a break from his almost-hourly mental calculation of how many days the stores of food they had brought onboard with them could be made to last. "And I'm not even allowed to sing." After an earlier musical interlude, a delegation of sailors had made it clear that if his voice was heard again, he would soon be serenading the rats in the bilge. Much's defiant response had been cut off short by Robin, who deemed it prudent not to cause trouble.

"We could play a game-" In her innocent bid to divert the manservant's mind, Djaq unwittingly triggered one of the the irritable explosions that came all too frequently when he was nervous.

"Oh! Oh no you don't!" he burst out with a fierce shake of his head. "I've played my last game of your choosing, and if I never hear the words _kalila_ or _dimna_ again it'll still be too soon!"

"Much, relax!" Disbelief vied with amusement in her voice. "I was just going to suggest a game of dice."

"Oh."

"I'm up for it," Allan put in hopefully. A moment later, he wished he'd held his tongue, as Djaq slowly fixed him with a speculative gaze that made him feel as trapped and exposed as a fish that had jumped too high and landed thrashing and suffocating on the deck.

"But, now you mention it, Much," she said quietly, an idea forming in her mind, "Now might not be such a bad time to finish the other game." No darkened barn on the edge of oblivion, this; but the surreal, dreamlike feeling of the world they had been living in for the last few days - sailing on a ship that did not move, the eerie feeling of being run aground on the water itself, the gentle rocking of the impotent sea - yes, perhaps it would be enough...

"I thought we did finish," John spoke up gruffly from his place on the steps leading up to the forecastle. "Wasn't that the point? To finish, so we could die at peace?"

"It isn't as if anything's changed," Much pointed out, slightly alarmed that his words had apparently awoken the spectre of that fraught and awkward night. "I mean, you two obviously haven't changed your minds," he nodded towards the large pale hand intertwined with Djaq's own, "and if you have I think we'd all rather you went somewhere else to talk about it."

"Would've been nice if you'd done that the first time," he muttered as he strode over to join Robin.

"Something has changed," Djaq replied, calmly but with an edge to her voice that made Will turn to look at her, as if seeking reassurance. He found it in the ghost of a smile that she gave him before continuing. "We have another player with us now. We all had our turns, but Allan did not."

"Eh?" Allan looked up, surprised at being referred to directly – although if anyone was going to do it, these days, it was Djaq – and baffled at the turn the conversation had taken.

"Allan, this is a game of truth. When you play _kalila_ and _dimna_, you say the most important things in your heart and your mind. It is a chance to say the things that need to be said."

There was a lot that needed to be said, she thought. An explanation, a real one, that didn't begin and end with, "I was stupid, it was a mistake." An apology that wasn't just a garbled, "I'm sorry lads, what else can I say?" A promise for the future that was more than, "I'm back now, okay?" A request for forgiveness that went further than, "Can we just forget it?"

All those phrases had been repeated countless times in the weeks since Allan rejoined them, and always in the same defensive tone. As far as he was concerned, he had saved their lives and the score was now settled, at least as far as it was in his power to do so. He seemed content to skulk at the edges of conversations, to accept veiled barbs in exchange for the cessation of outright hostility. It was less contentment, she believed, than helplessness; an inability to see any other option than to wait for time to heal the wounds his defection had caused.

That was progress, of a kind, she reasoned; a patience and humility that the old Allan-a-Dale had never possessed. But Djaq was a physician, and she believed that a cut could not heal properly unless it was cleaned. What Allan was doing was like trying to stitch up a wound with the arrow-head still inside it.

"Allan," she prompted gently, "is there anything you would like to say to everyone?"

As the weeks passed, she had become more and more frustrated with the uneasy surface reconciliation that everyone else seemed to accept as permanent. She was on her way home, and for some reason she did not want to set foot on that distant shore without setting things in order in the new home she had made for herself. Unfortunately, when "home" was a group of weapon-wielding men and "things" were feelings and grudges and betrayals, tidying up was no simple matter.

"Djaq, what're you on about?" He feigned amusement, as he always did when he was uncomfortable. "I've said it all already, okay? What more do you -"

"Allan." The shake of her head sliced through his denials with a silent plea, her dark eyes like magnets that would drag the words from him if he let her. He was good with words, always had been, as long as they were words he'd carefully chosen and arranged. But he knew what she wanted were not plausible stories, but the truths that his life had branded into him, and those he was reluctant to share.

"I wouldn't waste your time coaxing him," Much interrupted. "I'm really not interested in anything the traitor has to say, and I doubt anyone else is either."

Never had the words "Shut up, Much!" been so tempting as they were right now. The rare honesty that had begun to show in Allan's face was already seeping away, as John grunted his agreement.

Robin was silent, his eyes still focused on the horizon.

"I am, actually."

The sincerity in Will's low, level tone flooded Djaq with relief. It was the breach between these two that troubled her the most, in part because she felt herself to blame for it. In making her the centre of his world, Will had convinced himself that he did not need Allan to become again the friend he once was. He had thrown all his energy into loving Djaq, apparently blissfully happy to let her fill every empty space in his heart. But she did not want to take Allan's place; not now when he had finally come back to claim it. Will had brushed aside her attempts to discuss his almost-brother, unconsciously echoing Allan's words as he insisted that everything was fine, back to normal. Then he would change the subject with a shy kiss or a whispered endearment that made her heart ache for friendship lost even as it beat faster with love found at last.

This, then, was progress. She smiled at him: _thankyou, for having the courage to admit that you want things to be better. _

Allan, for his part, was surprised to find that three words from Will Scarlett made it so much harder for him to keep his silence. Suddenly he was back at the abandoned mine in Sherwood, straining with all his might to drag Robin and Djaq to the surface, out of reach of the Sheriff and his men. But that day he and Will had been pulling together; now his friend was using his strength against him, tightening the rope around the heavy padlocked chest that held his deepest confessions, inching it ever closer to the tip of his tongue.

The despair that had driven him to accept Gisborne's deal, that fear of the empty, barren future, that need to finally have something of his very own – Robin had thrown it back in his face when he offered it up at the Trip that day, but maybe now it would be different. Especially if they heard how worthless Allan had found Gisborne's rewards, in the end; the bitter loneliness that had curled itself around him even in the luxury of his new life. If he told them not just that he was sorry, but _how_ sorry. Just how much he wished that he could put things back the way they were, before. The things he had no time to say as the Prince's army swept towards Nottingham; well, tonight there was time, and Djaq asking for the truth, and Will... Will seemed to want to hear it.

But he looked up at exactly the wrong moment, just in time to catch the smile that nobody else was meant to see, and as the intruder paused, transfixed by the intimacy he had stumbled into, the rusting box of secrets plummeted again, back to the darkest depths of the mineshaft.

Allan sat in the shadows, as always, and he watched his two best friends – though that was truly a relative term, these days – basking in the warm sunlight that still remained out of his reach. He was an idiot. For a second he'd almost believed that Will cared for his reasons, his apologies. But he was just doing what she wanted, wasn't he, and he had his reward in that tender look of gratitude and pride. And Djaq: it was so like her, to pause for a moment to toss him a scrap from their table. _Well, no thanks. _

"Not being funny, Djaq, but this sounds like a bloody rum game to me," he said casually. "I think I'll stick to dice."

As he stood up and ambled away to join the sailors in their raucous entertainment, Djaq suppressed a sigh. She was an idiot. For a second, she'd almost imagined that men could be be persuaded to talk about their feelings without the catalyst of impending death to loosen their tongues. It had clearly been a mistake to make the attempt on such calm seas: a fierce storm might have been better.

Beside her, Will told himself firmly that the new burst of anger he suddenly felt towards Allan was all for disappointing Djaq. He tightened his hold on her hand. Those hands had cured many an illness or injury, yet try as she might she could not undo all the bad of the last few months. But Will was more than content to take the good that had come his way, and be grateful.

"Idiot," Much grumbled. "If he thinks we're coming to help him when those sailors catch him cheating, he can think again."

The moon continued its slow ascent, illuminating yet another night of tranquil seas and still air and no progress.


	2. Taking Stock

**Author's note: **

**Thanks so much for your lovely comments on the last chapter! **

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**Chapter 1: Taking Stock**

_Five weeks earlier; Portsmouth, England._

As they stood, trying not to get in anyone's way in all the bustle of the wharfside, Allan took a moment to take a closer look at the people with whom he had, again, thrown in his lot. Since their flight from Nettlestone barn two dawns ago, what with riding quickly and almost non-stop, eating in the saddle and snatching a few hours sleep by the roadside, there had been little chance for observation and even less for conversation. But he was interested to see what changes, if any, the last few months had wrought in his friends.

"I knew it was a mistake to come to Portsmouth," Much was saying now. "I told him! Hardly any ships for the east leave from here, and now we'll have to cross to France and travel overland, and if we were going to do that it would have been quicker to go to Southend..."

Well, that was something that was still the same – Much fussing and carping enough to drive a strong man mad, and just as obtuse as ever. It was fairly obvious, Allan thought, that Robin's decision to depart from Portsmouth had had little to do with logistics, and everything to do with the fact that that was where Gisbourne and Vaysey had taken Marian. Even if they were sure to have set sail before the outlaws even set foot in the town, their leader needed to follow her trail, to be where she had been, his love in this case stronger than his reason: something else that hadn't changed.

He was coming toward them now, at last, with a smile added to the purposeful expression he had worn ever since the escape. "We're in luck, lads. We've passage on the _Saint Lucy. _She was meant to sail this morning, but there was some problem with cargo that didn't arrive on time, and now she's set to leave in about three hours. She goes to Lisbon, then Marseilles, and it should be easy to find another ship from there."

"I still think it would be cheaper to go across France by land, master..."

Robin quieted Much's misgivings. "Cheaper, but not faster. And luckily money isn't too much of a problem."

"Yeah, we're travelling courtesy of the Sheriff, we are!" Allan swaggered a little as he spoke, but if he hoped someone would congratulate him on his last light-fingered act in the employment of his dark masters, he was disappointed. The conversation flowed on over his pride, as Much asked if they needed to buy provisions for the journey.

"No, no need," Robin answered. "For a few more coins, we can eat with the crew. You will have a well-earned holiday from cooking, my friend." That was odd, Allan thought. There was not even a trace of mockery in Robin's tone. He sounded truly... grateful, appreciative, neither of which were emotions he usually expressed towards Much.

A few seconds later, he realised something else was different, as nobody made the obvious response to Robin's comment. Come on, who's it going to be? Djaq? John? Will, if you'd take your big calf's eyes off Djaq for one second – no change there, then – but really, is no-one going to say it?

All right, he'd have to step into the breach! "Shouldn't that be the rest of us who've earned a holiday from his cooking?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

The reaction was explosive, to say the least.

"Oh, why don't you just go back to eating at Gisbourne's table!" Much's voice was so loud that Allan could not hear the single word John growled, but he would've bet money that it rhymed with "later". Will scowled at him, and Djaq's face was pained as she shook her head.

"Hey, hey, less of that, I saved your bleedin' bacon didn't I?" he protested.

"He's right, he did," Robin intervened grudgingly, before turning to issue a cold warning. "Allan, don't push it."

Okay, it was obviously a bit too early for a little joke. Allan filed the lesson away, while wondering at the fact that somehow, in his absence, Much had ceased to be fair game.

Djaq changed the subject by asking if she could go and buy a few ingredients for a seasickness remedy. "One of you at least is bound to need it," she said in her clinical way. Robin nodded and passed her a few coins.

"Good idea. Take Will, and ask around the market, try and find out if anyone's seen anyone answering to the Sheriff or Gisbourne's description. I want to know when they sailed, and on what ship."

In truth, he would be happy to know that they had at least been seen in Portsmouth. He could not shake the nagging fear that this was all a ruse, some elaborate plan of the Sheriff's, planted by Allan to send him and his men on a wild goose chase halfway across the world, and leaving the Black Knights in England free to pursue their treacherous business unopposed. And yet, what choice did he have? He could hope to find evidence that his enemies really had set sail, but he did not have time to wait for word that they had not. If there was a chance that they – and Marian – were on their way to the Holy Land, he had to follow them, even on nothing but the word of a traitor.

He turned to the others. "Allan, ask in the taverns. Same questions. John, with him. Make sure he stays out of trouble. Much and I will take the docks. Back here by the time the church bells strike two. Are we clear?"

The gang went their separate ways, the look on John's face warning Allan that this was not going to be a very convivial trip. Glancing over his shoulder, he cheered up slightly at the sight of Will hurrying after Djaq, a familiar, helpless, smitten expression on his face.

At least there were some things you could count on to stay the same.

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As he took a few long strides to catch up with the woman who slowed her pace to let him, Will's mind wrestled with the strangenesss of it all. The very foundations of his world had been – wonderfully, beautifully, incredibly – altered, and yet for the past two days it had almost seemed as if nothing had changed. He would have started to think he'd dreamed the whole thing (and wondered, no doubt, why his subconscious could not have arranged for a little more privacy and rather fewer soldiers), were it not for the fact that every time he caught Djaq's eyes, he saw them brimming with the same smile that he couldn't keep from his face for long.

But even then, it was such a small, subtle change. Smiles and looks, nods and winks and rolls of the eyes, a hand resting on a shoulder: these had long been a large part of the language of their friendship, a silent acknowledgment that they understood each other, trusted each other, would stand together in the face of the madness – sometimes comical, sometimes frightening – that characterised the life of Robin Hood's men. In each tiny gesture, Will had scratched another secret message, with an equal measure of hope and fear lest she decipher it. Now, the meaning in everything he did had been exposed - so why was he still, as always, scanning her every look and word for some sign of comprehension or reply?

He supposed it was because the headlong rush to Portsmouth had given them absolutely no chance to speak alone. And now, he had no idea where to start. How did you begin a conversation when the last thing you had said – really said, not "This way!" or "Have some bread" - had been, "I love you"?

As he fumbled for the right opening, she came out with one that had not even been on his shortlist.

"You can change your mind, if you want, now that we're not about to be killed," she said in a carefully insouciant manner. "I would not think less of you. I would say you had done a kind thing, humouring a dying woman in her last hours."

Will had never been a student of rhetoric, and the finer implications of the subjunctive tense were lost on him. So his first thought was a bitter self-reproach, for being so shy and stupid as to let her think for even a second that he hadn't meant it, and his second was a frantic search for the best way to tell her that he had. Realising he didn't have the words, he stopped and turned towards her, hoping that a kiss could go some way towards conveying just how much she meant to him, and how desperately he had longed for her love every day that he had treasured her friendship.

The sight of her face finally brought home to him that she didn't actually expect him to accept her offer of release.

"Djaq," he exhaled, letting go of the breath he had been holding without noticing. "Don't even make jokes like that!"

"I'm sorry," she conceded, "It wasn't fair, though I did not think you would believe me. But Will, I had to say something - your face!" She reached up a hand to rest lightly on his cheek. "You looked more terrified of me than of the mercenaries."

His smile spread slowly beneath her fingers as he realised that it truly was funny, and, in the same instant, that her hand was shaking slightly. This was Djaq, for God's sake; in laughter and in fear they were on the same side. He mirrored her touch, thumb smoothing the silken locks of hair behind her ear while his littlest finger just brushed the tips of her eyelashes. Then he bent his head to finish the sentence he had been about to start.

The ballads and poems and songs of both their languages had always suggested that nothing could match the perfect, poignant beauty of a first kiss. But, pressed together in a crowded street in an unfamiliar town, Djaq and Will found their second all the sweeter for the knowledge that this one would not be the last.

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As the gang reassembled, ready to make their way aboard the _Saint Lucy_, some of them were definitely feeling more content than others about the way the day had progressed. Robin's mind had been set at ease by reports from several sources that the Sheriff and Gisbourne had chartered a ship and left Portsmouth the day before; Much was chuffed at the way Robin had confided his misgivings as they worked the docks, and asked for his advice. The shopping party were all smiles, having found everything they were looking for in the marketplace. Allan, however, was feeling frustrated after two hours of being watched like a hairy hawk by John, who was being even more taciturn than usual, and, worse, had been completely unwilling to understand that to get information in a tavern, you needed to buy a drink.

Robin chose this moment to make one of his signature stirring speeches. "Well, friends, we have a long journey ahead of us, and not one that I can ask you to make against your will. Any one of you is free to leave now with my blessing, and the hope that we will meet again some day."

Allan couldn't honestly say that he wasn't tempted. He wasn't exactly enamoured with the idea of such an arduous voyage, chasing two ruthless men who he had just double-crossed and who would probably not be best pleased to see him again, all for the sake of a posh nob's life and someone else's woman. The thought had crossed his mind, as well, that with Gisbourne and Vaysey gone, a thief might find it easy to make a living in Nottinghamshire. But, considering the proof he had just rendered them that he really did value some things more than money, he felt a little stung at the way the gang turned as one to look at him as Robin finished his sentence.

"Oi, I'm here aren't I? I'm sorry, I'm back now, I'm coming with you, alright?"

Narrowing his eyes, Robin nodded slowly. "All aboard then. Oh, and Djaq – you'll have to put this on!" He tossed her the seal ring that he always wore.

"What?" This was one of the rare occasions when she doubted her control of the English language, and, as usual, the answer was not that her understanding was faulty, but merely that Englishmen were quite, quite mad.

"The captain got spooked when I mentioned a woman travelling with us. It's bad luck to have a maiden onboard," Robin explained. "So I told him you two were married." With an innocent shrug he turned on his heel and made his way towards the ship.

Much hurried after him, taking in the merry expression on his friend's face that reminded him of innumerable childhood pranks involving frogs and pails of water, cowpats and kitchen maids and – on occasion – a certain Sheriff's daughter.

"Master, that was unkind! It's been_ two days_ – poor Will is going to die of embarrassment any second!"

Coming up behind them, John nodded. "He is already."

"What else could I do?" Robin protested. "The alternative was to have her pretend to be married to someone else, and I don't think either of them would have thanked me for that!"

Much didn't look convinced. "Still -"

"Besides," added Robin with a chuckle. "You can't tell me that's not funny..." As they reached the top of the gangplank, he turned and indicated the young couple, still standing motionless, staring at the small metal object in Djaq's palm as though it would bite them.

Below, Allan hadn't moved either. This was too hilarious, and he wasn't going to miss a second. The idea of Will, who couldn't even tell the girl she looked good in a dress, pretending to be married, and all the while no doubt terrified of letting on that he liked her – okay, loved her, Allan conceded, not all that comfortable even thinking the word that he himself never used unless he didn't mean it.

No doubt about it. This was going to be an entertaining trip.

For the second time that day, Will was fighting for words. He didn't want Djaq to feel trapped, to think that by putting on the ring she was making any promises – but even to tell her it didn't have to mean anything would be to make real the idea that it might, and risk scaring her more. At the same time, he didn't want to make her think _he_ was running from what that ring implied, for in his straightforward way, he had unconsciously pledged himself long ago. God, this was awful; like the Sheriff's strongroom floor where every possible move had the potential to be your undoing. And why the hell was Allan still standing there? Was he _trying_ to make this more difficult?

Misunderstanding his old friend's pleading look, Allan took pity on the lad and decided to come to the rescue – not, he privately thought, that it would be any great hardship, Djaq's looks being something that had changed only for the better in the last few months, as she grew ever more comfortable with being recognised as a woman. He stepped forward, smiling as he did so at the burning blush of Will's ears.

"Not being funny, Will, but you're a bloody hopeless actor. I don't know what Robin was thinking. Me, on the other hand..." He winked at Djaq, and picked up the ring. "If the fair lady will allow..."

"Allan-" Will sounded more like John than he ever had before, his voice an angry growl as he began an admonition that he didn't know how to finish. Djaq did it for him, echoing their leader's words in a tone that was less threatening than Robin's had been, but equally sincere. "Don't push it."

Allan was well used to Djaq looking at him like that, like he'd done something wrong, but usually he had a pretty fair idea of what it was. He was still wondering as she plucked the ring back from him and pushed it hastily onto her left index finger, the same place it occupied on Robin's hand.

"Come on, we have to board," she said briskly.

And then, suddenly, it all made sense to Allan, as Will took his courage in both hands and Djaq's left in his right, and gently slid the ring off, and onto its proper finger. Although the pink tinge was creeping from his ears into the rest of his face, he didn't look down or away, and as Allan followed his gaze he noticed, for the first time, that Will was not the only one whose eyes could properly have been compared to those of a calf. It was an even more apt description, he supposed, for he'd never actually seen a blue-eyed cow, whereas Djaq's eyes were big and brown and soft – softer than he'd ever seen them.

As their composure finally deserted them – there being only so much serious emotion one can take in a single day – the pair in front of him finally dropped their eye contact in a duet of nervous laughter, but the hands stayed linked as they walked onto the ship.

Allan followed in their wake, his master-skill at keeping his face expressionless the only thing stopping his jaw from hitting the gangplank - or his lips from twisting into a scowl.

It seemed more had changed than he had thought.


	3. Seasickness, part I

**Author's note: Firstly, thankyou thankyou thankyou to everyone who's reviewed! Your words made my day, whichever day it happened to be!**

**I'm moving away from the one-shot concept a little, as the events of the start of the voyage, at least, have a tendency to blend into each other. The end of the previous chapter has been altered very slightly to foreshadow future developments, but there's no difference to the plot, such as it is. **

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**Seasickness – Part I**

It was soon apparent that Djaq's purchases had not been in vain, for John was struck down with seasickness within half an hour of leaving port. To those in the gang who tended towards such poetic reflection, there was a certain logic in it: it made sense that it would be John – solid, grounded, of the earth – who would suffer the most now, when nothing was solid and there was neither ground nor earth on which to plant his feet.

Robin, of course, found his sea legs instantly. Though he could not walk on water, as half his villagers – and, Much sometimes suspected, the man himself – seemed to believe, he could certainly stride around the decks of the _Saint Lucy_ as though he had been born on the waves. Allan, too, with his talent for adopting a gait appropriate for every situation, whether con or confrontation, quickly learned to move in accord with the rolling motion of the ship. Much felt a little uncomfortable, as he always did at sea, but had a serious conversation with his stomach in which they agreed that food was too precious to be thrown around willy-nilly, and resolved to avoid it if they possibly could. Although Will did not feel ill, it was a few hours before he was able to navigate the swaying decks without tripping over his gangly limbs; and Djaq – Djaq had her own reasons not to love ocean travel, but as they trooped into the dark belly of the ship to claim their patches of floor, she forced herself to hold her head up and her shoulders straight, reminding herself that this trip was not like the last. This time she walked aboard freely, surrounded by friends who knew her for who and what she was.

They returned above deck in time to see Portsmouth harbour shrinking into the distance.

"We'll be back soon enough," Much comforted the others, remembering his own feelings on first leaving England. "And she looks even more beautiful when you come home."

Nobody laughed at his description of the foggy, stoney grey coast as a thing of beauty, not even Djaq, who had had her own opinion of the English landscape and climate for the last two years. Now that she was leaving, she was surprised at the realisation that struck her, and she nodded almost unconsciously. As her eyes caught the edge of Will's answering smile, she realised something else: how much more she could read in his face, now that she cared to look. For all her love of knowledge, that was one book of which she had been careful only to skim the surface, always a little afraid of what dangerous truths a closer study might reveal, not just about Will's feelings but her own.

Right now, he was thanking her for finding his homeland beautiful, and at the same time, telling her how beautiful she was in his eyes. She felt a fluttering in her stomach that had nothing whatsoever to do with seasickness.

The moment was interrupted by another heaving retch from John, leaning overboard a few feet away.

"Just a suggestion, mate, but that ginger muck of Djaq's might do more good if you kept it to yourself rather than sharing it with the fishes."

A passing deckhand grinned at Allan's joke, even if nobody else did.

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Poor John was still hunched miserably at the edge of the ship long after nightfall.

"Try to lie down and close your eyes. It might help." He turned to see Djaq standing beside him, proferring a blanket.

Slowly, he obeyed, feeling his stomach – empty by now – lurch a little closer to his throat with every wave the ship crested. He groaned faintly. For many months, his heart had felt that every day would be a good day to die – but never, never had his body agreed as much as it did tonight.

The ship was sailing on a set course, only a skeleton nightwatch of sailors remaining on deck, so it was quiet enough for him to hear that Djaq's footsteps did not retreat. A few minutes later another set approached.

"So. Just like old times," said a voice that sent an involuntary shudder through John's already troubled insides, before he remembered that Allan was on their side again. Apparently.

"Considering that we are hundreds of miles from Sherwood, on a ship, that is doubtful." Unable to see anything, he was surprised at how much could be deduced from a person's tone. Djaq's was almost, but not quite, a perfect facsimile of the friendly sarcasm she had often assumed towards the treacherous joker in the old days. She was ill-at-ease, he decided.

"Not the first time we've had John groaning on the ground and you looking after him, though," Allan reminisced. "First day you joined us, that was. Before any of us even knew you weren't a lad." He paused for a long moment, long enough for the ship, and John's stomach, to rise and fall three more times. "Except Will," he finished quietly.

"Robin guessed too." Her light, clipped tone revealed precisely nothing - unless it was the fact that she did not intend it to.

"I s'pose, a lot has changed since then," he tried. John contemplated asking Djaq if Allan was bothering her – a nice line he had once heard a man in a tavern use in relation to a wastrel not unlike him - but decided against it. Satisfying as it would be, she was more than capable of fending for herself; and more to the point, he was in no mood to chase the little weasel away with his staff right now.

"You would know more about change than any of us." There was another pause; four waves, this time. "You came back, Allan."

He chuckled, a little too loudly. "About time I saw sense. Decided to stop being a bloody idiot, didn't I?"

"Easy as that?" Even with his eyes closed, John could imagine the shrug of her shoulders as she tried to pass off the hint of sadness in her voice as casual curiosity.

"C'mon Djaq, don't be like that. I'm back, aren't I? I'm one of you again."

"I believe you, Allan, and I am glad," she said, simply and sincerely, but there was something in her inflection that implied she was not finished. She paused, as if unsure whether to go on. "But why is it that every time we talk about this, you use that word _idiot_? This... it is not about sense or stupidity, we all know how clever you are-"

"I'll take that as a compliment, coming from a smart-aleck like you," Allan joked, but she continued as if he had not spoken.

"It is about right and wrong, and yet you are so afraid to use those words! At last you have chosen to do what is _right_, but if you still cannot say out loud that that is what you have done..." It was as if the very words gave her pain. "How can we trust that you will not go back to being Gisbourne's man again, if that makes "sense" one day?"

"Djaq-"

"If you still do not know that you are a good man, how can anyone else believe it?"

Personally, John thought Djaq was wasting her time and energy fretting about _that._ He didn't give a tinker's curse what Allan-a-Dale believed; his name would never be coupled with the words "good man", except in a sentence about how he had robbed or cheated or betrayed one.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," said Allan.

"No, and that is the problem. Because it does not matter what I think of you, Allan, what matters is what you-"

"Now, Will Scarlett, on the other hand." He did not need the advantage of volume to drown out the end of Djaq's sentence: he made his impact purely through the sudden absence of forced cheer in his tone. "He's a good man, eh?"

John heard Djaq exhale slowly, and wondered if it was time to step in, for his own sake if not for hers. This was not a conversation he wanted to be privy to. But, suddenly it seemed there was no need. He opened his eyes a crack to determine which of them was walking away, wincing at the way the world jolted up and down before him. The boots that remained, a few handspans from his face, looked too small to be Allan's.

His guess was confirmed, and he realised why Allan had left so abruptly, as another pair of feet joined Djaq's, and Will spoke in a voice that sounded much too bashfully tender to be directed at anyone but her.

"It's cold up here. I brought you a blanket."

"Thank you." John heard the faint movement of fabric as she wrapped it around her shoulders. After a moment, during which he guessed some thankfully silent sign of affection was exchanged between the two, she spoke again, with a bland observation that stood in stark relief to the swirling currents and sunken emotions of the argument he had just overheard.

"It's strange, after all this time, not to see a single tree anywhere on the horizon."

"I don't think I've ever been out of sight of a tree," Will answered thoughtfully. "Except inside houses or the Nottingham walls. But they weren't that far away, then. We just couldn't see them."

Perhaps the sudden pang of confusion and loss that John felt at this thought was visible in the young carpenter's face as well, for she said heartily, "It is odd, but not so bad. Look how much more of the sky we can see. You'll never see this many stars at once on land."

John stifled a moan, as he was attacked by a fresh volley of nausea, and, at the same time, realised he was trapped, unable to move without throwing up, in the company of a pair of lovers who seemed to be about to start talking about the stars. He was not a particularly romantic man, but he remembered telling Alice, one summer night, that her eyes were like stars. And if he had his chance over again, he would tell her that he would love her until the stars stopped shining. If that bird business in the barn was anything to go by, he suspected Djaq was about to teach him a few new lines on the subject of stars, to add to the list of sweet nothings he would never be able to say to his wife.

He was profoundly relieved, then, when she did nothing of the sort, instead launching into an animated account of the pictures the stars made, according to some King of somewhere, hundreds of years ago. She pointed each one out, telling Will their names in Latin, the translations in English and in Arabic, and the stories that went with them, tales of hunters and gods, lions and bulls, that she related almost without pausing for breath.

Had she always talked quite this much, he wondered idly, and then, slowly, the vivacious stream of chatter began to melt before it reached John's ears - she was no longer speaking sentences, only words, and then sounds, as he slowly fell into a welcome sleep.

When he awoke, his first bleary awareness was that his guts were still maintaining their uneasy standoff with the rest of his body. His second was that Djaq was still talking as if the ship was powered by her words alone. She sounded a little less bright now, fatigue creeping into the edges of her voice, but she pushed on valiantly, describing a book by a Saracen man with a name longer than John's beard, who thought that the Earth was flying through the air around the sun.

Suddenly she stopped abruptly. "Oh, I'm sorry. You are tired, and I keep talking."

For a moment, John thought she was addressing him, but then realised Will had probably yawned, as the lad replied, trying and failing to sound alert. "No, I'm fine. S'interesting. Keep going."

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she said softly. "Go and sleep."

"What about you?"

"I want to keep an eye on John for a bit longer. You go down, you've barely slept since the night before... Nettlestone." The slight pause before the last word betrayed the significance far beyond its size that the village would always hold from now on in the history of Robin Hood's gang, and particularly its two youngest members.

"Neither have you," Will pointed out with fond amusement. "John's fine. He's sleeping, and so should you."

In the silence that followed, John tried to fathom the cause of the girl's reluctance to go downstairs. He considered, and quickly dismissed, the idea that she had taken Robin's foolish trick with the wedding ring a little too seriously. If, against all reason, the very fact that this was Will - shy, decent, honourable Will - did not stop her fearing that some sort of unwelcome consummation would be expected of her, then surely that they were sharing their sleeping quarters with Robin, Much, Allan and the whole ship's crew ought to be enough to set her mind at ease. That could not be it.

What then, he wondered, but did not have time to finish the thought, as Djaq said in a voice so calm and normal he supposed he must have imagined all her misgivings, "You're right. Come."

And then he was left alone to sleep.

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Djaq lay on her back on the floor of the lower deck, trying to will herself to sleep. A young seaman had offered to give up his hammock for "the lady", a chivalrous gesture that had amused her, instead of making her angry as it once would have done, but she preferred to bunk down on the bare boards between between her friends.

All together. Just like in Sherwood, except for poor John, she reassured herself.

Even Allan was amongst them again, curled up on the far edge of the group, a foot or so away from Much as if he feared the other man might lose control of his fists in the night. She thought back to their conversation - each pressing for a confession the other was unwilling to give; she guarding her newfound knowledge of her heart as fiercely as he hid what he had, she hoped, recently learned about his soul. It all seemed distant now, buried under a lifetime's collection of astronomical trivia and a crushing weariness.

That's because you are tired. Go to sleep.

She stared upwards, through the empty space between battered floor and dark ceiling, before the same wry inner voice reminded her that sleep would be rather easier if she closed her eyes. She obeyed, and then there was only the rhythmic rocking of the ship and the powerful smell of dozens of male bodies in close quarters.

_She was in the middle layer of bunks, only thin rows of slats and bare inches of air between her and the men above and below; nothing but a fingerlength between her shoulders and the men to left and right. _

_Left, right, up, down; those were the only directions she knew now, for it was dark in the cargo hold. The last time they'd been above deck, she had tried to fix her mind on East, keeping her head turned that way as they were pushed roughly into the black below, but the ship changed course so often, riding the winds and tides until she lost all notion of where the sun might be rising and setting. She prayed facing what she thought was the back of the ship, though even that was hard to tell. The motion of the waves had become as routine as her own heartbeat, until sometimes she wasn't sure which way they were moving, or even if they were moving at all. But if they were taking them West, then the other way must be East, so she hoped that on average her devotions were at least in the general direction of Mecca._

_The creaking of wood above her face; a curse as one man jabbed another in the ribs; someone coughing, so close she was sure she felt the little gust of wind disturbing the stuffy stillness. The creak of a hundred bunks, the cursing and coughing of a hundred men jammed into a space meant for twenty. The creaking of wood above her face..._

Djaq opened her eyes. She nearly raised her arm to test the expanse of emptiness that stretched above her, but forced herself to remain still. There was no need, and she would not do anything so foolish; she could see there was nothing there. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes again, surrendering to the darkness and the rolling of the floor beneath her.

_The fever came, taking many lives. The pale men did nothing to stop it, their human cargo worth little when they were so easily replaced and, after all, had no souls. Often, even the bodies remained for many days before they were taken away and dumped overboard. The sour smell of sweating, unwashed, living men mingled with the sickly-sweet odour of decay. _

_The bunk above her had stopped creaking three days ago. The man to her left did not have long; she heard his breathing growing fainter and fainter as the strength leached from his body. She woke in the night and realised it had stopped altogether. There was nothing, nothing but silence..._

She jerked upright with a gasp. Trembling, she stared at Will's chest for what seemed an eternity, desperately willing him to breathe again. Then she realised that he had been all along. She watched his ribcage rise and fall for a few more moments, then turned, checking each of her companions in turn. They were all still alive. Of course they were. She shook her head and lay down.

_She was quiet, talking just enough not to attract undue attention from her fellows, while avoiding at all costs being noticed by the pale men. There was one in particular she feared. She was more afraid of his single eye than of the empty red socket beside it, for every time he entered the hold she felt for an instant that it saw her: Saffiyah. _

_She slept with one hand curled around her little glass vial, a weapon more valuable than any dagger because it had not occurred to the slavers to take it away from her; they thought it merely an amulet. She prayed that if the need arose she could unscrew the top in time to unleash its burning contents into the face of her attacker. Failing that, she would drink it down herself, ending her life in choking agony rather than living on in shame and disgrace. It was her worst fear: a hand creeping towards her in the darkness. As long as her eyes were closed, how could she ever be sure that it was not there, hovering a hair's breadth from her body, moving ever closer, fingers about to close around her..._

Her throat closed over and she was gasping for air as she opened her eyes to prove to herself that there was nobody there, but then there was, and she reached for the amulet but it was gone, nothing but a little square of wood where it should be. Panic rising, she lashed out with a fist instead, but he dodged it with an ease she had seen in so many fights, and only then did she recognise her attacker.

"Djaq," Robin said, for it was he who had woken as she tossed and turned. "Djaq, it's me."

Will stirred as she scrambled over him in her hurry to escape the cabin. "What-"

Robin was about to tell the lad to go back to sleep and let him handle it; a crowd was the last thing she needed right now. But as Djaq clambered up the wooden ladder, he remembered what he so often forgot: that Will was no longer Dan and Jane Scarlett's boy, but a man now. Man enough to kill, when he had to, but also to value life and preserve it where he could; man enough to fight not just for what remained of his family, but for all the poor of England; man enough to love Djaq, who was a woman not a girl, and, they had suddenly learned, to be loved by her in return. So he said nothing, and lay back down himself as Will followed Djaq out into the night.

* * *

**At the moment, the plan is to have a part II of this Seasickness arc, which will pick up what happens up on deck. I'm having a few issues with it, though, so I reserve the right to move on completely and leave it up to you to imagine that scene. **

**Plus, that way the fluff content can be as high or as low as you like. ;) ****(And it will almost certainly be fluffier than the version I'm working on. Evil chuckle.)**

**Reviews are my candy!**

**xx B.**


	4. Seasickness, part II

_This chapter is about... oh, four months overdue, due to a serious industrial relations dispute between the part of my brain that comes up with the ideas and the part that writes the words. Many thanks to everyone who's encouraged me to continue, and I apologise for constantly promising that it was nearly done and would be up soon. (I really did believe it - clearly, I have delusions of my own efficiency.)_

_It follows straight on from the end of the last chapter, in which being on a ship provokes some very painful memories for Djaq. It's very introspective and action-free, even by my usual standards - but these issues regarding her character have been stuck on the tip of my pen for ages, and I needed to deal with them. The way I see it, she needed to deal with them too._

* * *

**Seasickness, Part II**

The momentum of her flight had carried her to the stern of the ship, where she stood, head bowed, watching the churning water the vessel left in its wake. Her face was wet with spray, whipped up by the harsh wind that had shocked away the last traces of her terror, leaving her feeling cold and somewhat foolish. Now that the moment was past, Djaq did not fear the things she had seen and heard below deck. They were nothing more than chimeras and could not hurt her; what troubled her was the power they had had over her while they lasted.

She did not turn as the tentative footfalls stopped a few paces behind her.

"Djaq?"

"I am not going to jump off and try to swim back to shore, if that is what you're afraid of. I have not _completely_ lost my mind yet." Her attempt at laughter rang false even to her own ears, and the strangled sound seemed to dispel Will's doubts about coming any closer. Djaq stiffened instinctively as his long arms wrapped around her, still unused to such close contact and in no mood to enjoy it at present. He released her instantly, with a mumbled apology that made her feel guilty enough to reach her hands back for his and draw them about her shoulders like the edges of a cloak. She was too distracted even to raise a chuckle at this awkward farce of under-rehearsed intimacy - or to smile, as she might otherwise have done, at the blend of chivalry and shyness that made him cross his arms where they encircled hers, hands resting on his own forearms rather than anywhere she might not be comfortable with them touching.

"Did... did you have a bad dream?" She could feel his chin moving against her hair as he spoke.

"No, not a dream. I was awake, but I was not here." She kept both her words and her voice abrupt and impassive, needing to stay in the realm of fact rather than melodramatic fancy. Of course, there was no matter-of-fact way to describe how, for those few minutes, reason and reality had deserted her, turning the cabin into a stifling prison, the warm body of the man she loved into a lifeless corpse, and the face of her trusted rescuer and leader into that of her most hateful enemy. So she didn't even try.

"Where were you?" Will asked gently.

"The ship that brought me from Acre to Venice nearly three years ago." Cities, dates: these were hard facts, things that could be trusted. But they were false friends tonight, reminding her of all the months and miles that had passed since she had left the one-eyed man's ship, and mocking her for the folly and weakness of losing her head over an ordeal that was ancient history.

Her captors had stripped her of her sword, but besides the amulet, she had other weapons they could not take from her. She was proud of the armoury she had carried with her on that journey by ship and slave-cart: strength, courage, honour and wits that had seen her through the war in her homeland and the adventures and misadventures of a Sherwood forest outlaw. Three nights ago she had faced death - certainly not without fear, but she had mastered it and used those last hours to tie up the loose threads of her life.

And yet here she was, starting at shadows and battling an enemy who was not there. It was -

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Will's white knuckles growing paler before her eyes as he dug his fingers into the cloth of his sleeves, pulling her more tightly against his chest. "The slave ship."

"Yes." Djaq lifted her head, focusing her eyes on a distant point of light in the sky. It was, strictly speaking, a cure for seasickness - one that circumstances had not allowed her to test on her last voyage - but she hoped it might do something to relieve the tumult in her head and stomach anyway. Behind her, Will was silent, as if sensing her need to gather herself. She knew he would stand there all night, if need be, letting her stare at the stars and think, as patiently as he had listened to her babbling about these same stars in an attempt to keep herself from thinking.

Now she recognised the one she had chosen at random as the brightest point of Cepheus, the King: one of the constellations she had been describing earlier, just a few hours further along its nightly progress across the heavens. Would it be the same for her, she wondered - forced to relive the same journey night after night until they reached their destination?

"As long as I was on land, there was not a day that I was not planning an escape." She recognised the note of defensiveness in her own voice, though Will certainly hadn't accused her of anything. "I never succeeded, but there was always that hope," she went on. "Men can be fought, or frightened, or persuaded. Ropes and chains and bars... there are ways..."

Even as she spoke, an image flashed before her mind's eye: a tall, thin figure stamping a burning serpent of rope beneath his feet. Then, she had been thankful that this band of English brigands included such a callow youth, gullible enough to believe in Turk flu and foolish enough to play right into her hands and untie the knot that held the cage closed. If someone had tried to tell her that day how much she would come to appreciate Will Scarlett's presence by her side, she might have started to believe in Turk flu herself: a fearsome disease that melted people's brains.

"But on a ship, there is nowhere to run. When you are surrounded by miles of empty sea, there is nothing to do but wait," she said. "It was the only time I have ever felt helpless."

"Nothing like that is going to happen to you again," he said fiercely. The subtext was clear – _I will not let it_ - and though she knew he meant well, Djaq felt that he was missing the point. Of course he would do anything he could to keep her from harm; she would do the same for him, for any of the gang. But when it came down to it, she had to trust to her own resources to see her through whatever dangers lay before them. The six of them were stronger together, but each man or woman needed to be strong enough alone. _She_ needed to be strong enough alone.

"No!" she insisted. "The point is that it did happen again. It felt as real as the last time."

"I know. It must have been terrible. Nobody should have to go through what you did, and when I think that it was Englishmen who..." Will spoke in a queer, halting fashion, clearly struggling to keep his voice calm and comforting, and restrain the anger that threatened to run away with his words. "Since I met you, there've been days I'd have given anything not to be English," he finished.

He meant it. Djaq supposed she should not be surprised; she had rarely discussed much of her past with the other outlaws, but of course that didn't mean that Will wouldn't have thought about it, Will who thought about everything, felt for everyone, and took far too much on his own shoulders. He would have felt like that, not because he loved her, but because he was a good man, to whom cruelty and injustice were anathema; that he loved her was simply her good fortune.

"Better to wish all Englishmen were like you." She leaned back, consciously relaxing the tense posture that had held her somehow apart from him even though her body was pressed against his from her head to her heels, and felt his shoulders shift as he literally shrugged off her compliment.

"You're safe," he said staunchly.

Djaq sighed. "I know that. But I do not like the thought of being afraid for no reason. I do not like the idea of seeing things that are not real." She thought wryly that that was an understatement of which Little John would have been proud; the whole truth was that it both shamed and terrified her.

"It sounds like what Robin was talking about, in the barn," Will mused.

"Perhaps. But... _this_ does not happen to me, Will." To others, perhaps, but not to her, to all these Englishmen who had fought in her country – Robin and Much, Carter, the one they called Harold. If she had been as superstitious as they, she might have believed it was a punishment for the things they had done to her people, a curse that struck the invaders and passed over their victims. But she knew better than that. These "demons" came not from the vengeful God of either side, but from their very own minds, and she had credited her strength of will with keeping her free of them. She had always been able to put past danger and suffering behind her – not forgotten, but never overwhelming her like this, never clouding her judgement, never hampering her sword-arm or her physician's hands.

Well, it seemed she really was no different from any of them. That made twice in three days that she had been proved wrong about herself, about things she had thought set her apart from the people around her. She had barely had time to get used to the fact that she was not, as she had sternly told herself for so long, immune to love, and now here was another force against which, it seemed, her defences were weaker than she had believed.

Slowly, inexorably, a new and equally unwelcome thought came to her: perhaps the timing of all that had happened to her of late was no coincidence.

She was too tired to decide whether the idea made perfect sense or none at all, but she was used to looking at the world in terms of cause and effect, and the theory was not one that could be dismissed out of hand. In truth, it even had a certain, dreadful appeal: if she knew what had triggered tonight's little performance, then she could make sure it did not happen again.

She turned and slid away from Will, moving to face him, her back to the sea. "You go back to sleep," she said. "I want to stay up here and think for a while."

"I'll stay with you. I don't mind," he assured her, as if concern for his comfort was the only possible reason she could have for not wanting him with her at a time like this. It was all so _simple_ for him, she reflected enviously. "We can probably even sleep up here if you don't want to go back below," he added.

"Thank you, but no. I would prefer to be alone."

He looked as if she had slapped him, and she longed to soften what she had said, to temper it with a smile or a touch. More than anything, she wished she could reach up and press her mouth to his, more to reassure herself than him, as if she could draw from his lips some of the desperate certainty of that first heartbreaking kiss by the doorway to certain death. But it would be unfair to him – and besides, it would only serve to remind her of how different things were, now that she was left alive after all and choices that had seemed so simple were suddenly far more complicated.

On impulse, she reached out and squeezed his hand. "Thank you. You have helped. But please, you can help me most now by going back downstairs."

"Djaq-"

Already on edge, her patience worn thin, she had to fight the urge to snap at him, aware that it would be cruel, not to mention counterproductive. Anger would simply keep him above deck longer, trying to make amends. Instead she met his eyes and repeated firmly, "Please, Will."

He reluctantly retreated, glancing back over his shoulder more times than she would have thought possible for a journey of only a few dozen steps, and she exhaled with a great gasp of relief when he disappeared from view. Glad that he had left her alone with the rising flood of trepidation and doubt, before it reached her tongue and burst out in words that would hurt him far more than sending him away had done. Words that she might still have to say, but not until she had had a chance to think.

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If by letting Will go after Djaq, Robin had hoped to get back to sleep sooner, then he was sadly mistaken. Marian had never been far from his thought since he'd heard the news of her capture, but now the constant dull ache of worry was replaced by sharp, vivid images: Marian, awakening in terror in the belly of a ship – and she had reason enough to be fearful, in her present compant. Marian in chains, unable to run outside for a breath of fresh air. Marian in distress, with nobody to comfort her; nobody or Gisbourne. It was hard to say which was worse.

The unpleasant reality was that he knew the answer: he had to hope that Gisbourne was by her side, because the vile cowardly traitor was her only shield now against Vaysey's wrath. However much he hated to imagine her beset by nightmares and shackles and Gisbourne's unwelcome attentions, they were the least of Marian's troubles, little more than irritations compared to the real dangers that threatened her. She was brave and clever and resourceful, but Vaysey was a madman who now knew her for his enemy. Against that, the rest was as insignificant as the nagging sting of a horsefly in the face of an army. Robin wouldn't even waste God's time praying to keep her safe from bad dreams - all he asked was that she stay alive. Whatever else she suffered could be healed and avenged. He just had to reach her.

Though they could not be more than a day and a night's sailing behind Vaysey's ship, for the first time in years he had no idea where she was and there was no ingenious plan that could get him to her any faster than the tide and the ship's sails. He was at the mercy of the ocean, powerless to do anything more than repeat, endlessly, his impotent warcry. _I'm coming, my love. _

If truth be told, he was jealous of Will and Djaq. It sounded absurd, that the Earl of Huntingdon should envy a former slave and one of his own peasants. But who was to say what made sense any more, when an English carpenter and a Saracen woman could fall in love and be together as if it were the simplest thing in the world, while two English nobles, practically betrothed since childhood, were kept apart by an ever-thickening web of duty, intrigue and mischance.

Will and Djaq had lived side by side since the first day they laid eyes on each other, while it seemed that he and Marian were being pulled further and further apart, separated first by the walls of her father's house, then by the ramparts of Nottingham Castle, and now by an indeterminate expanse of water.

Everything was so easy for them. No. Not everything, he reminded himself: the ring on Djaq's finger could never be anything more than a sham, their union never recognised by either of their faiths. But when all was said and done, they were up there on the deck of the ship, together, and neither of them had had to climb through a window or shake off a guard for it to be possible. He had to wonder how much divine approval was really worth, compared with the chance to spend time with your beloved on Earth.

He forced his thoughts in a more cheerful direction. Their chance would come, it had to, and until then hope for the future, when Locksley could flourish again and its Lord and Lady could live there in peace, would have to be enough to sustain them both through the trials ahead.

So, just for tonight, he broke his rule and asked a little more of the heavens. _God bless her, and send her pleasant dreams of home._

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Left alone, Djaq crossed the deck and sank down cross-legged beside the sleeping Little John. Solid, silent and completely oblivious to her distress, his presence was comforting in a way that Will's had ceased to be from the moment this new worry entered her mind. Even without saying a word, Will focused his whole attention on her with an intensity that made her feel like a lock he was trying to pick. His earnest desire to help made it impossible to concentrate – at least when what she needed to think about was him, and the disquieting possibility that this was a punishment of sorts after all, not for breaking the laws of Gods or men but the ones she had set for herself.

When she had blurted out her little string of last confessions - truths she herself had not known until her mouth was already open to say them - she'd assumed that her love for Will was the most important discovery she had made. In her hurry to tell him how she felt while there was still time, she had barely noticed the other revelation that had come tumbling out between the words of love. The realisation that she had not spoken them before, or even thought them, for one simple reason. She had been afraid.

Of what - that he would laugh in her face? Hardly. Her feelings for Will had not been alone in that dark, shuttered corner of her mind where she had kept them locked up until that moment. They had kept company with the memory of every look or touch or loaded conversation that she had not been able to dismiss as friendly cameraderie, or at most youthful infatuation, and so had chosen not to think about at all. As she had finally spoken out that night, even before his stunned expression had finally cracked into a smile, she had not feared rejection. She had known what he would say - for all that his somewhat unique choice of words was not something she could ever have predicted, even if she'd been the type to waste time imagining such conversations.

So what had she been afraid of? The answer was sickeningly clear: of this. Of becoming the proof of what she had long half-suspected: that love was for the weak, that love _made _people weak – and of learning she'd been wrong in her conviction that she was stronger. Afraid that whatever it was that drew her and Will together would rob her not just of her heart, but of the very qualities that made her who she was.

It had been more than a rebellion against the lessons her mother had taught her by word and example – that a woman had no business loving a man until she was safely married to him, and that a wife's duty was to be meek and submissive and everything else Djaq was not. She knew that, because when her mother was dead, and she was in Sherwood, and the only man within a hundred miles who'd read the Qur'an was a cocky outlaw leader with no interest in condemning her for breaking its rules, she had still felt the same way.

It was more, too, than the sensible caution of a lone woman among a group of warriors, her acceptance dependant on making her sex mean as little as possible. From the first, she had taken it for granted that none of the outlaws could ever be more to her than they were to each other: not much of a sacrifice, she'd thought, considering the ignorant state of their minds and the unwashed condition of their bodies. But even as her hair grew longer and her clothes tighter, as she began to flirt with Allan, to accept Will's considerate gestures, to acknowledge that Much and John saw her as a surrogate sister and daughter, rather than a brother and son – in short, as it became clear that she could be at once a woman and a respected member of the gang – still it had been inconceivable that she should love any of them except as dear friends.

No, leaving aside what others might think or expect of her, the problem lay with the very idea of _love_. An all-consuming, irrational emotion, blind to choice or circumstance and incomprehensible to those who did not feel it, that could turn wise men into fools, friends into enemies, and fetter free souls to each other as if by some invisible thread... If even half of what was said of it was true, it did not take a genius to realise that for someone who revered reason as much as she did her God, and who, for years, had been reliant on her wits to keep her alive and safe, such a sentiment was best avoided.

And so she had. Most of the time it was as unconscious as breathing, or wrapping her blanket more tightly around her on cold nights, the reflex that made her twist out of the way of an enemy's sword or any of the myriad other actions dictated by the instinctive animal need to survive. When she did have cause to think about it, it was always with a faint sense of pride that she was above the folly of those who allowed their hearts free reign over their heads – at best like Much, so easily swayed by a smile and a little attention; at worst like Robin and Gisbourne, unlikely conjoined twins sharing not a common spine or stomach but a burning core of passion, jealousy and reckless desperation exactly as wide and as high as Marian Kate Fitzwalter.

Djaq had not been oblivious to the wary looks the others – Will, especially – had cast in her direction in the wake of Allan's defection from the gang. But where their concern might have irritated her, instead it served as a silent vindication of her strength, a daily reminder that anyone who expected her to be – there was no better word, ill though it suited her - _unmanned_ by his departure had seriously underestimated her. She had been hurt by Allan's betrayal and sorely missed his company. She had continued to believe that he could change - and she'd been right - but she had neither pined away like some tragic ballad maiden, nor sulked like... well, like Robin in one of his lovesick moods.

In the last few days, though, with her eyes newly opened and turned inwards on herself, she had had a clearer view than ever before of that fork in the way: the dark and twisted path down which her heart had ventured before turning back to the straight, fair road that led in the end to a barn in Nettlestone village. So perhaps, she admitted, what Allan's treachery had really proved was that love had no power to destroy you unless you spoke its name and acknowledged its hold on you, if only to yourself.

That, of course, was exactly what she had done three nights since, and now it seemed that in conjuring this slippery feeling out of its prison and giving it a solid form, she may have taken on more than she had bargained for. That was the irony of it, she thought: if this had not happened tonight, she might have believed that she'd outsmarted love after all, for she had been relieved to find that voicing her feelings for Will had not suddenly changed them into the kind of dizzying madness the poets were so fond of describing. It remained the same love, simple and sweet and safe, that she had felt before setting foot in that barn without recognising it for what it was, and only valued when she thought she was about to lose it; not the impetuous work of an arrow or a lightning bolt, but affection for a dear friend and respect for a truly good man, grown into something more.

Love might be the enemy of reason, but this was not an unreasonable love. Of all the choices her heart could have made, Will was the one that made sense, deserving of love in more ways than she had had time to say that night. If she could love anyone without making a fool of herself, surely it would be Will, who would never hurt or deceive her, never give her cause to be jealous or uncertain.

She should have been safe. But the consequences of her choice had attacked her from an entirely unexpected direction, one that had nothing to do with Will himself. The memories that had haunted her were from a time before she knew there was such a person, but that was a half-hearted comfort at best against the doubts that had taken their place. How many times had she seen a body weakened by one illness or injury, then carried off by another that came creeping in through defences already lowered?

If it was true, there could be only one solution. Everything would have to go back to the way it was before. At once she was assailed by stabs of protest from two sides, her conscience taking Will's part while a purely selfish voice cried out on her own account, but she steeled herself against them. It was time to come back to reality. She had always known that love was too dangerous a force to have a place in her life, at least while it was so perilous and uncertain. These few days had simply been an aberration. She had flouted the rules in the belief that she would only see one more dawn, but now she had a future again and she must face it as she always had. It was just fortunate that she had realised so soon, before either she or Will had become too used to the new state of affairs.  
_  
Except he already is_, she conceded. That couldn't be helped. He would be hurt, but with luck he would understand why she had to do this, that she had not meant for it to be this way. And she would push what she felt for him back down into the darkness, and if she did not allow herself to think about it, it would flicker and die like a flame starved of air and she would be strong and free again.

The pang she felt at the prospect forced her to admit that Will was not the only one who had quickly grown attached to the idea of their being together. Instead of the surrender she had always dreaded, the last few days had felt more like a victory. Like all Robin's men, she spent her days trying to cure what was wrong with the world – sickness and hunger, corruption and war - and it had been refreshing, for that little while, to have something that was hers alone and that simply felt... good.

She let regret wash over her unchecked for a few moments before stifling it. _Self-pity never helped anyone._ Against all the odds, she had a life that the terrified woman dragged aboard that one-eyed villain's ship would never have dreamed of: she would not be so pathetic as to bewail the one thing she could not have. Besides, this bitter remedy was far preferable to the alternative: the possibility that this had nothing to do with admitting her feelings for Will, and thus could not be easily fixed by banishing them. If it had all happened solely because she was on a ship again then she was in an unthinkable position. She refused to spend the whole journey – three months at least - at the mercy of some imaginary menace, unable to trust her own senses not to revolt against her. No. Far better to do what she could and pray that it worked.

Still, that stubborn, selfish corner of her heart persisted in whispering that perhaps she need do nothing right away – perhaps this would not happen again anyway. _After all, a good scientist does not leap to conclusions from a single observation... _  
_  
But nor does a physician wait to be sure the illness is fatal before she lifts a finger to cure it._

This was not only about her, though. Surely she owed it to Will not to act rashly. Or was it more unfair to let it go on like this, when she was all too afraid she knew how it must end?

Djaq sat on the deck for a long time. The sailors had changed their watch and Cepheus's crown had almost disappeared over the horizon before she came to her decision: she would take what had happened tonight as a warning. If there was another sign that this had all been a mistake - that love could not co-exist with the self-control she had spent so long instilling - if that happened, she would know what she must do, and she resolved to do it without hesitating. It would not be easy, but she had survived far, far worse – and if this was the price of that fortitude, she would pay it.

But not yet. For now, she would give herself one more chance, to see if, after all, she could love Will without compromising everything she valued in herself.

Surely that was an experiment worth making.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Will was still awake when she crept back downstairs, his eyes meeting hers in a question and answer that had passed between them enough times before to need no words.  
_  
Are you alright?_

_Yes._

In her tense and over-weary state, sleep was slow to come, and it was almost daybreak when she finally dozed off, but the spectres of her last voyage did not return that night. Perhaps it was a little harder now to mistake this ship for the other, for even when her eyes were closed she was aware of something that had never been there the last time she was at sea - the warmth of a hand curled gently around hers.


End file.
